


Steam Room

by Sonora



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: (sort of), Anonymous Sex, Bath Houses, Blow Jobs, Dysfunctional Family, Father/Son Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-05-29 06:42:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6363547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonora/pseuds/Sonora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herc just wants to relax</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [will_o_wisp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/will_o_wisp/gifts).



> Because will-o-wisp wanted bath houses, but Herc and Chuck wanted feels.

Back to the smooth tile, Herc lets his eyes slide shut, savoring the quiet. The damn steam faucet (or valve, or whatever the hell the thing is called) finally just now turned off, and the room is bathed in dark, peaceful, warm, misty quiet.

Just what the doctor called for.

Literally.

The clinic’s telling him he needs to get his stress level down. The constant fighting with Chuck is starting to affect their ability to hold a drift, sure, but it’s more than that. Herc’ll be forty-three this month, and considering that he’s been in the military since he was seventeen, that makes him fucking _ancient_. His body’s one giant mass of scar tissue and old injuries, the deployment pace is picking up, what with the damn kaijuu coming more often and bigger than before, and things are just...

Tiring.

Tiring is the right word.

 _You have to find some way to let go out this stress, Ranger Hansen. Have you tried yoga?_

Yoga. Right. That’ll fix everything. That’ll stop Chuck’s incessant, bitchy whining from getting under his skin. That’ll stop the damn fights the kid always picks the second they get out of the conn-pod.

Yoga would have prevented that fight he and Chuck had half an hour ago. Over stupid shit. Herc can’t even remember what it was. He’d just like to get through one fucking day without the kid crawling up his arse about something. What’s Chuck want from him, anyway? Not attention or affection or anything like that, that’s for damn sure. Every attempt he’s ever made just gets rebuffed.

Herc’s left shoulder twinges, the ghost of an injury from two deployments ago. Chuck’s injury, actually, which makes it that much more annoying when Herc feels it (because of course, even though the sprog never says anything about it, Herc knows Chuck feels his flare-ups too). In the thick heat of the steam room, though, it seems like too much effort to even bother rubbing at it. 

Herc slides down on the bench instead, laying out on the tile. His towel slips off, but that’s alright. Hardly anybody uses the locker room facilities, especially this time of night, and the change of angle helps. Fuck the rest of the ‘Dome anyway. He’s the senior Ranger here; if he wants to lay out naked in the steam room at damn near midnight, he’s going to damn well do it.

The sign on the door - and the doc - said something about not falling asleep in here. Seems like good advice. Still. It’s comfortable and warm and the steam has a sweet eucalyptus scent to it, which is more than a little reminiscent of the garden they had at their old house, before Scissure and the war.

And Herc might be drifting off a bit when a wave of cool air undulates through the room.

When the door snicks shut.

Visibility is crap in this steam, so he can’t get a good read on who it is. Just a dark shape shape in the haze. Herc thinks about saying something, but why? And he doesn’t even bother covering himself up - it’s not like anybody could see anything in this room anyway. 

But that shape isn’t sitting down. Close, but still unclear. 

The fogger turns back on, flooding gray haze and white noise into the space.

Herc decides _fuck it_ and closes his eyes. He’s had enough of dealing with other people’s bullshit for the day. 

And then he feels hands on his waist.

There’s no reason to not open his eyes, not protest, say something, shove the guy off, and Herc’s a millisecond from doing it when those hands are joined by the unmistakable press of lips. Right to the soft skin to the inside of his thigh.

_Oh_

“It might not be me you’re looking for, mate,” Herc says. 

There might be a verbalized answer, but the the fog machine’s effectively wiping out his hearing, so what Herc gets instead is another kiss.

This shit happened a lot more back in the glory days, with Lucky and Scott’s unfortunate cocaine problem. 

Nice to have it happening now. Pathetic as that might be.

So, against what probably should be his better judgment, Herc just winds a hand through this bloke’s hair and pulls him closer.

They don’t talk, which is wonderful; Herc’s done enough (angry, screaming) talking for one day. Instead, he just spreads his legs in the foggy twilight, letting one of them fall off the bench completely and relaxes into that warm, willing mouth.

The touches are hesitant at first, like the bloke doesn’t really know what he’s doing, or is nervous about doing it with Herc. Nothing wrong with that - flattering, almost - but this is not the time or place for romance. Those hands on his waist, Herc urges down to his thighs, around his balls, sending fire clean through him and blood rushing to his dick.

“Oh honey,” he purrs and takes a firmer grasp on the damp hair with one hand, wraps the other around the base of his swelling cock to drag it down a smooth cheek. “C’mon, don’t tease. I know you want a taste of this. Come get some Ranger cock.”

There’s a little noise, like a muffled laugh or a groan or something, and not a second later, he’s engulfed in delicious moisture.

By comparison to the outside air, the bloke’s mouth is almost cool. Sweet and smooth. He has to give a bit more direction, guiding that head up and down, but once the bloke gets the hang of it, it’s pretty damn great. 

Herc doesn’t say anything more after that. Just lays back in the steam, eyes still closed, and breathes it all in, head spinning from the heat, the sensation of it all, hands kneading fine, wet locks, urging that bobbing head on. Rough and more than a little dirty, too much teeth and not enough finesse, it’s far from the best blowjob Herc’s ever had. Yet there’s something sweet about the way this bloke is touching him, almost familiar, and Herc wonders if this is somebody he knows out there in the ‘Dome. If he’d fancy a second go sometime. It’d be nice to see somebody again, even casually. Chuck always threw fits when Herc tried to date people in the past...

But no space for questions. By the time he finally spills into that mouth, he can’t hardly think, he feels so good. Like he’s floating. Like he’s watching himself from outside his own body.

It’s better than he’s felt in months.

So good, in fact, he doesn’t even notice that the bloke’s gone until another swirl of cool air drifts in through the room.

According to his fitbit though, he’s way past the twenty minutes the sign on the door recommends. Still a bit groggy from orgasm, Herc drags himself up and out, stopping at the door to let his equilibrium reestablish.

He’s still a bit overheated, more than a bit discombobulated, by the time he throws his clothes on and heads back to their quarters. Herc thinks about taking a piss, but Chuck’s in there brushing his teeth, the mirror steamed up from the shower, nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. He’s growing up into quite a handsome young man, Herc finds himself thinking idly. Shame Chuck keeps shoving everyone away.

“How you doin’ there, sprog?”

Chuck’s eyes snap up. There’s something there Herc can’t quite read; it’s time like this he wishes he was better with people. But whatever it is fades into the usual irritation, and the flush on his cheeks probably has more to do with anger than some kind of embarrassment. 

“What d’you care, old man? Stormin’ off to the damn gym steam room. So relaxing, isn’t it? Being a fucking arsehole all the time.”

Herc’s about to correct that _old man_ bullshit, but raises an eyebrow at something else there instead. “I didn’t tell you where I was going.”

That flush grows. Definitely anger. “Your hair’s wet and you look like a goddamn beet.”

Herc glances down at himself. He is a bit of a mess. That much is true. Did he really let some stranger suck him off in the locker room? He did. And it was fantastic. Last thing he wants to do right now is pick this back up with Chuck. 

“I guess it is,” he agrees.

It just makes Chuck glower more, and Herc gives up. Hits his bunk, scooting Max over a bit so he can actually get in. The dog just wuffs a greeting and nuzzles his hand, looking for pets. 

At least somebody in this fucked up family wants him around.

+++++

Chuck watches Dad pet his dog, toothbrush still stuck in the corner of his mouth.

It's not fair. Dad not caring about any of this at all. And here Chuck is, trying to get the taste of the arsehole's cum out of his mouth, trying not to think about how Dad is willing to touch a complete stranger with such tenderness but never has a single kind word for him.

It's just no fucking fair at all.


	2. Chapter 2

“Anything I should know?”

It’s tense. More tense than it usually is. Their little pre-deployment talk. Herc instituted the practice with Scott, after their first drift together, when he found all kinds of shit he never wanted to know about floating around in his brother’s mind. With Chuck, after Scott, it seemed even more imperative to be above the board prior to stepping into the conn pod.

 _Honesty’s important,_ he’d told Chuck, the first time they’d done this together, his boy all of fifteen and angry at the entire world. _Striker won’t budge an inch if there’s nothing but lies between us._

Herc had been trying to do the right thing. Maybe he’d been hoping it could be the start of repairing whatever had gone wrong between them.

 _You should have gone for Mum first_ , Chuck had told him, without skipping a beat, without so much as blinking. _Fucking selfish of you to save yourself but not her._

So much for their relationship. But as much as Chuck hates him, Chuck wants to kill kaijuu more and they’ve done just fine. Six kills under their belt is pretty goddamn good. 

Herc would kill every single kaijuu that comes out of the Breach himself if it meant having some kind of relationship with his son, but evidently, some rifts are too wide to bridge. At least the sprog hasn’t gone completely off the rails, like Scott did. 

If he knew what to do, he’d do it. But he doesn’t. At least they get these few moments of openness.

“Got a blowjob last week,” Herc replies evenly. He knows a few tricks on keeping things hidden - like the fact he’s bi. With as violently as the sprog reacts to any mention of anything to do with relationships or his mum or his father and his mum together... Herc just doesn’t think it’d be a good idea to mention he’s been with men.

“Was it a good blowjob?”

“Do you need to know that?”

“Fuck you,” Chuck grumbles, and it sounds even more pissed off than usual. 

“What about you? Anything?”

They’re almost at the doors to the suit room, and Chuck’s a weird shade of red. “Nothing.”

“Chuck,” he warns.

“Maybe I went to a bath house and blew a bloke myself,” Chuck tosses back.

Herc only barely stops himself from reacting, blood pressure skyrocketing to DEFCON 4 almost instantaneously. Holy shit. His boy’s not... is he? There’s never been a hint of this in the Drift, but then again, after everything that went down with Scott, Herc’s been quite keen on staying out of that part of Chuck’s head. He has no desire to know what the kid’s doing with his sex life. If he has a sex life - hell, has Chuck ever even gone out with anyone? Herc can’t recall any dates. Or oddly placed hickies. 

“Chuck, if this is your way of coming out...”

“...it might...”

“...you know I don’t care, right?”

It’s only after the word are out of his mouth that Herc realizes what a mistake they are. Of course he _cares_. It doesn’t _matter_ to him - he’s the last person in the world qualified to have an opinion about another man’s sexuality, and Chuck’s nineteen, he can make his own decisions - but Chuck’s his son. He wants, desperately wants, for Chuck to share things like that with him. For Chuck to _want_ to share things with him. 

“Right,” Chuck replies, voice flat and eyes narrowed.

The training mission, surprisingly, goes just fine.

Chuck’s always more focused when they’re firing off live missiles.

The sprog does disappear on him though, the second their drive suits are off. Doesn’t say a damn word about where he’s off to or what he’s doing. It probably involves spending the night buried in Striker’s guts. That seems to be Chuck’s go-to activity when Herc’s fucked up with him.

Herc wonders if he should go after him. 

He goes back to the locker rooms instead. 

Shit thing of him to do anyway. But he does it anyway.

+++++

Dad doesn’t apologize for that homophobic bullshit.

Of course he does.

And it fucking hurts, even though Chuck doesn’t want it to. Dad’s a fucking hypocrite, and Dad doesn’t want anything that Chuck does, and it’s not fucking _fair_. Where does Dad even get off with that? 

Chuck’s always known Dad’s been with blokes before - Scott told Chuck all about it one night, back when he was about 13 and Scott was even more drunk off his arse than usual. Looking back, it kind of sounded like Scott wanted to get in Dad’s pants, but Chuck’s pretty sure that never happened. Who knows? If Dad’s willing to get a blowjob from a total stranger, in a strange place, without so much as asking for a name or drinks or dinner... or whatever it is you’re supposed to do with people you fuck.

But then, it’s not like anybody’s ever asked Chuck out for dinner. Not unless they wanted something out of him. Fucking a jaeger pilot. Feather in the cap. Something like that.

So Chuck’s never had a real date, but he has had his dad’s dick in his mouth and he can’t forget about how good it was. How it felt to be _approved_ of, even if only for a few minutes.

His skin feels hot, prickly, sweat starting up along the creases of his sleep pants, even though it’s cool in the room. 

Dad’s back in the steam room.

Chuck knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t shake the thought that Dad’s waiting for _him_. Well not him, not Chuck Hansen, his son, but whoever it was who gave him that blowjob (and it’s quite a compliment, Dad going back looking for seconds. Chuck hasn’t done that very often, but he watches a lot of porn and fancies that he’s good at just about everything he does. He wants it to not be surprising that he’s good enough for seconds when it comes it sex, and hates the fact that it is.)

Dad’s in the steam room, waiting, so Chuck goes.

It won’t make anything better between them, but Chuck needs it, Dad probably needs it too, and it’s not like things can get worse, can they?

Fucking wanker.


	3. Chapter 3

So maybe the steam room turns into a bit of a habit.

Wednesday night. Like clockwork. 

Sometimes the bloke is already there when Herc shows up, but usually, it’s Herc who’s the first to arrive. That’s perfect fine - gives him time to think about it, fantasize, let everything else melt away into the hot, humid air. Relax. 

Enjoy the burst of giddy-nervous anticipation, blooming up as the door opens.

Fall into the sound of the fogger that always, always turns on.

Sink into that beautiful mouth.

The bloke’s got talent. Herc can give him that. It seemed little unsure the first few times, like he hadn’t done this too much, but that has to be an act; he sucks dick like a pro now, like he really and truly enjoys it, and it only took the barest of prompting from Herc. Still, the fantasy of it being somebody young and inexperienced is far more erotic than it should be.

Herc’s just grateful there are still plenty of Jaeger Flies around Sydney. And that Chuck doesn’t press for details. They’re in the sims three times a week, two live-fires a month, so there’s plenty of opportunities for the sprog to be his usual arsehole self about it, but if anything, his mind pulls back at the slightest hint of anything sexual in the drift.

Actually, Herc’s starting to wonder if his son is asexual or something. He can’t remember the last time he saw Chuck take an interest in anyone. Maybe that’s what Chuck was trying to say that day.

But whatever. The sprog’s always been distant. Not like he can be any more pissed off - disappointed in, frustrated with, heedless of - his father than he already is. Nothing Herc’s tried in the past has helped, and there’s nothing he can do now. It’s Chuck’s problem, and Herc’s got enough of his own disappointment to deal with. 

His bloke didn’t show up tonight.

He tries not to slam his locker shut, pulling his clothes out and letting them scatter all over the bench. It’s stupid, how attached - accustomed, not attached, never that - to some fucker whose name he doesn’t even know. The bloke doesn’t owe him anything. A bit of fun. That’s all it was. And if it’s over now, well, Sydney’s a great big town and it’s been a terrible long time since Herc went fishing in it...

But a note falls out of his pants pocket. Neat - typed.

_Storage Room 16A1, third floor, 2230. Don’t you or that cock of yours be late._

Herc turns it over, eyes narrowed in consideration. There’s nothing on the back. Nothing but plain bond paper, nothing exciting about it at all. It could be a prank, one of the crew pulling some shit on him, but then why the bit about his cock? How would anybody know at all?

He gets dressed in record time.

++++

Chuck checks his watch for probably the thirtieth time in the past ten minutes. He’d had to wait until Dad actually went into the steam room before planting the note, and then a few more minutes after that; his old man is a stubborn bastard and wouldn’t have given up on his weekly blowjob so easily. Half an hour. Chuck’s willing to bet Dad waited at least half an hour before getting fed up.

Hopefully, he still comes.

The illumination from his bezel is the only light in the room, the soft blue glow from the second hand ticking out the minutes where Dad isn’t showing up. It’s keeping the nerves at bay - barely. He’s never done anything like this, but Dad - wanker that he is - probably has, and Chuck’s done loads of research on how this works and made sure he has everything properly prepped and has enough lube and all and it’s... it’s better than losing his cherry to some random arsehole at a bar, isn’t it?

_What, like Dad cares about you?_

And he’s about three seconds from walking out, escaping his own sick need, when the door opens.

Chuck knows every nook and cranny of the Shatterdome; this particular area was a strategic choice. It’s cut up into three or four interlocking rooms for classified storage, one of the doors connecting out to what used to be one of the crew briefing rooms. They built a bigger auditorium a couple years back, more central in the huge row of hangers that face the harbor, and this one fell into disuse. The maintenance guys use the briefing room for movies sometimes, and the storage area for all that sex they can’t have in the barracks, an old couch set up in the far back area. It’s a tech-tested and approved location for this sort of thing, and even better, there are plenty of places to hide so he won’t be caught by the light spilling in now.

“Hello?” Chuck hears Dad call softly. His boots are loud on the floor. Or maybe that’s just been because Chuck’s been waiting in here so long, hoping alone. “If this is some kind of prank, mate, I’m telling you right now, I don’t have the goddamn patience for it.”

Chuck takes a deep breath and stands up. Dad will probably be able to see his watch, so he takes it off and drops it on a built-in shelf (he memorized the room layout before switching the lights off; seemed the thing to do) before stepping up behind his dad. Chuck hugs him around the waist, cheek to his back.

Not because of... shit, that seems needy, and he forces himself to pull a hand off, drop it down to Dad’s waistband instead.

Dad’s gotta be able to feel that he’s naked. Which also seemed to be the right call for this particular situation.

If Chuck’s going to do this, he bloody well wants to get it over with. First time’s gotta be the worst, right? He hasn’t been able to _think_ about anything else, the past month or so, 

“Eager, aren’t we?”

 _Not shit, old man,_ Chuck thinks to himself, not daring to make any noise at all, and unbuttons the top of his dad’s fly. 

If this was about some kind of connection - if Dad wanted that at all - they wouldn’t be here in the first place, now would they? Not that Dad knows it’s him - not that Dad would want to do this with him - but Chuck can’t help the anger that rises up in his throat at the thought. He’s hard and horny and pissed off and kind of sore from the plug he’s been wearing for the last few days for this, just in case, and the lube he’s already prepped himself up with feels weird and he wants this over with.

Dad just needs to fuck him already.

Dad, luckily, gets the message.

Dad grabs Chuck and throws him around, pushing him into the nearest wall, pressing up against him and biting at his ear. “You’re a dirty little thing, aren’t you?” he purrs, fingers digging into Chuck’s hips. Chuck bucks back into him, letting his bare, lubed arse slide up across Dad’s erection. “Just gagging for some Ranger cock, aren’t you?”

 _Only yours,_ Chuck thinks, and bucks back again.

Those fingers move, two moving up in between Chuck’s cheeks to tease at his hole. Chuck can’t help the way his breath hitches in his throat. He’s been watching a lot of porn lately - hasn’t been able to stop, actually, since that first night he blew his dad - but this feels even better than what he imagined it would.

“Mm, yes, look at you. Got yourself ready for me, didn’t you?”

Bracing himself up against the wall as Dad’s fingers get more forceful, start pushing in, Chuck nods. Frantic. He can’t hold back the whine.

“Shh, boy. I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” His fingers spread, and Chuck is damn glad he’s been using a plug.

Chuck forgot condoms (actually, he was too embarrassed to go to the store and buy them; damn paparazzi probably would have splashed it across the international tabloids anyway) but Dad doesn’t ask, so maybe that’s the way these things are supposed to go. 

There’s not much foreplay, but that’s fine. Chuck wouldn’t want to draw this out any more than necessary; his nerves, already frazzled, are threatening to strangle him.

Once Dad actually gets his dick up Chuck’s arse, they smooth out again.

He’s not going to be rejected. Not here, not like this. Dad wants him like this.

He sighs. Lays his forehead on the wall on top of a hand, wraps the other around his own cock - which is hard enough to hammer nails right now - and closes his eyes. 

Lets Dad do whatever he wants.

It’s not as rough Chuck was expecting. Dad’s not exactly gentle, but he’s not rough. Not like he is when they’re sparring. This isn’t about them trying to hurt each other, he knew that, but it takes Chuck a minute or two to realize that his dad is actually trying to make him feel _good_ (well, not him, not Chuck, but the bloke he’s with, the anonymous hole he’s fucking), and after that, it’s a lot easier to breath into the sensation of being punched open and thrust back.

It’s over way too quick; minutes, it feels like, which is a bit anti-climatic, Dad pulling out like his does and coming all over Chuck’s back. It’s filthy and dirty and nothing that a son’s supposed to want from his father, but whatever it is that’s broken in Chuck practically purrs in pleasure. Chuck comes a moment later, harder than he can ever remember, and it occurs to his fogged mind that Dad’s hand is laid over his own, where he was stripping his cock.

It’s the first time Dad’s touched him.

Usually, after the steam room, Chuck jerks off by himself in the shower, if not there on the floor in the room itself.

His knees are so shaky he’d probably fall over if Dad’s bulk wasn’t pressed to his back, holding him up. Chuck feels ashamed of himself for being so weak but it’s been so long since Dad held him - maybe since Mum, maybe that long - that he doesn’t try and throw him off.

Dad’s hands slide up his ribs, one more time. 

“One for the road, sweet boy?” he murmurs in his ear, unmistakably close, and kisses his cheek.

Chuck’s blood runs cold. Dad wants to kiss him. But as appealing an offer as that is, Chuck can’t, they can’t - this is the line he can’t cross. He figures he can hide this much in the drift, what they’ve already done, but any more than this and it’ll probably come through and then Dad’ll put _him_ in the hospital, just like what happened to Uncle Scott. (And yeah, Chuck doesn’t know exactly what Dad saw in the drift with Uncle Scott that day - Dad told Stacker, of course, but not him - but he’s pretty tricking Dad into fucking him has to be worse than anything Scott ever did)

So instead, he shoves Dad away. 

Hoping Dad will get the message.

Dad moves back, but the silence stretches out longer than it should. “If you want to do this again,” he finally says, “you know which locker is mine.”

Chuck shrinks back into the dark alcove at the back of the room, back near the sofa where he thought things would probably end up, letting Dad move past him and out into the hallway. Light floods the space, almost catching him, and the door bangs shut again.

He crumples down to the floor, knees curling up and head falling between them. His body aches in the best and worst way possible. His arse feels like it’s been torn open, a space there now that wasn’t there before, a space that he desperately needs filled back up again. His thighs are slick from lube and his own come and he doesn’t know how he’s ever going to wash this mess off his body.

But then, he doesn’t want to.

He can still feel Dad’s hands on his body, Dad’s cock in his arse, the stubble burn Dad left, all over his shoulders and back. Dad was _happy_ with him tonight, Dad _approved_ , Dad _wanted_ him

This is so fucked up.

Chuck already knows he’s going to do it again.

+++++

Chuck isn’t in their quarters when Herc gets back. Herc’s so relieved about that - wouldn’t do to try to explain the lube stains on the front of his khakis - that he doesn’t even think about texting Chuck until after he’s had a shower.

_Where are you?_

The answer is short, tense, and total Chuck. _Out. Be back in AM._

Herc double checks the schedule they have hanging over the microwave. _0900 we’ve got a Kwoon demo, Don’t be too hung over._

Chuck doesn’t reply. 

Herc wonders if he should say anything else. He’s not worried about the sprog - Chuck can take care of himself, and it’s not uncommon for him to go out with their crew. But Chuck doesn’t normally go out on week nights. Not when things like a goddamn DV visit are on the docket for the next day.

He sends one more quick text - _be safe_.

The reply comes five minutes later. _Nice of you to babysit_

Herc gives up and goes to bed, thinking about the bloke from the storage room. It’s been a long time since Herc had a proper lay, and that was so, so good. There was something comforting about it, maybe the scent of that male body familiar and sweet, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. Somebody he knows, probably, somebody he works with here, but who, Herc’s got no idea. It’s not his place to be trying to suss it out, either. 

He’s not sure if the bloke doesn’t want to be ID’ed, or if he just gets off on anonymous sex, but whatever it is, it works just fine for Herc. Sure, he’s always enjoyed looking his lovers in the eye and hearing them gasp his name and knowing he’s made them feel good, but beggars can’t be choosers. He’ll keep playing along, if is means he gets to keep playing.

He lays in the dark of their quarters, playing with himself just a bit, and hopes to hell that Chuck doesn’t see this shit in the drift.

Like the sprog needs any more excuses to hate him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm still having trouble writing sex, apparently, and these two are de-t-e-r-m-i-n-e-d not to get along...


	4. Chapter 4

The cigarette does nothing to break the oppressiveness of the evening; the humidity is fucking stupid and everything smells of the ocean. The ruined, toxic ocean of Sydney Harbour, beyond the concrete edge of the Shatterdome’s apron.

Two weeks now without a note in his locker.

Two weeks.

And he’s way too much of a bullheaded bastard to go check tonight, and he knows it.

But why should he be upset about it, anyway? It’s been far too long already, and not that Herc doesn’t appreciate a good mid-week, no-strings fuck - you’d have to be daft not to - but it just seems stupid at this point. Not the fucking bit, but the way it happens. Always anonymous. Nothing... more. Herc’s had plenty of one-offs over the years, and sex certainly doesn’t equal feelings for everyone (he knows that), and yet for this bloke? He’d love to see him in the light. Take him out to dinner. Cuddle on the couch with a six-pack and a shitty action movie. Risk Chuck’s inevitable pissy fit to have _something_.

Jaeger pilots don’t have very good odds. Herc’s got more reasons than most not to go down - it’s his son he jockeys with, his _son_ \- and he’s got no plans on dying out there, but life hasn’t been kind to his plans. 

Hell, life hasn’t been kind to him, period.

He probably should have kept that in mind, the last time his bloke came by the supply room. The bloke’s resourceful; they’ve probably fucked in just about every cupboard and forgotten corner of the Sydney Shatterdome now, but that old briefing room annex remains their favorite. Herc had taken him on the sofa that last time, stayed buried in him for as long as he could afterward, held his face and kissed him and asked...

It’s a fuck of a lot for him to offer a public date. A public date, with a man. The press might not be quite as interested as they once were, but it would still make the pages of every newspaper in Oz.

Maybe the bloke’s not interested in that kind of attention.

Maybe he just wanted to fuck a jaeger pilot.

That’s been on Herc’s mind a lot the last year.

Almost a year, though. That’s... well, it’s not a commitment, but it’s certainly consistent, isn’t it? That has to mean something, doesn’t it?

So why’d his bloke get his panties in a twist over a simple date?

He hears the jingle of familiar dog tags and pulls himself away from his morose contemplation of the ocean to see his son striding towards him, Max in tow. Boy got himself his first tattoo a couple weeks ago and he’s been wearing nothing but vest tops, irrationally proud of the large blue bandage protecting the military-style Aussie flag he got. Not exactly what Herc would have picked, but at least it isn’t any of that hipster bullshit. Pastel blue neo-American owls or some big-titted alien girl.

“Thought I felt you smoking,” Chuck says, and taps the side of his head. Chuck-talk for the ghost drift. 

Some pilot pairs share words or images; the Hansen men all seem to get nothing but feelings. Impressions of emotion, echoes of tactile contact. Herc can’t be sure what exactly it is that Chuck picked up on - his mood or the sensation of paper between his fingers or hot smoke mixing with the sea air in his lungs - but it doesn’t really matter. 

“The fuck do you care?”

“Don’t,” Chuck shrugs. “But I’d hate for you to be carting one of those little oxygen tanks around someday. Wheeling it about.”

“I’m touched,” Herc replies with every ounce of sarcasm that comment deserves, but sighs. “But no, I, uhh... you’re gonna see it, so... the bloke I was seeing hasn’t shown up. Last few times.”

“So what? You were getting your pole waxed. Big deal,” Chuck snorts, and Max wuffs his way around Herc’s boots.

“It’s not like that,” Herc snaps, and flicks his dead butt end off the berm. He squats down to pet their dog. “You’ll understand someday.”

“What, when I fuck somebody? Please.”

“Chuck.”

“I’ve had sex. No big deal.”

From the ground, Herc eyes him. If Chuck had had sex, he’s pretty sure he would have seen something. Felt something. Lord knows he felt _everything_ Scott used to do. “When’d you have sex?”

“This year,” Chuck replies, too defiant for it to be anything other than panic, and not for the first time, Herc wishes the kaijuu had never hit and Angie had never died and they were still a family, his wife around to explain their baffling, brilliant son to him, the way she did when Chuck was a boy. 

“It’s more than that, Chuck,” he says, standing. “When you have feelings for somebody, things change.”

Chuck snorts and turns around, resting on his elbows against the railing. “So you have feelings for the bloke you’re fucking in a cupboard? You don’t even know his fucking name.”

“Cupboard?” Herc asks sharply - they’ve never talked about this detail.

“Shit bleeds through in the drift, old man.”

Herc lights up another cigarette, then offers the pack to Chuck. Nasty habit, smoking, but it’s one of those little gifts from Scott that won’t seem to go away. The docs say neural bleed isn’t a thing, but it doesn’t explain how pilots all seem to pick up habits from each other. “Do you want to have this convo now, or before the next drift?”

“You’re gonna fucking tell me anyway, aren’t you?”

“You first, sprog. Who’re you seeing?”

“I’m not seeing anybody,” Chuck replies archly, but he’s fumbling with the lighter. “Random guy, here and there.”

“Random isn’t a good idea, Chuck.”

“It’s fine, Dad. Or do you want to give me another lecture about the evils of being gay?”

“I never said anything of the sort,” Herc replies, perplexed.

“Whatever. It’s probably just bleed over, you being bi and all that, thanks very much for telling me.”

“Chuck,” Herc says, and then sighs. Right. Shit. “I didn’t think that was a conversation we needed to have, with your mum and...”

“Oh, don’t you fuckin’ dare...”

“Watch your tone, young man.”

“Young man? I’m twenty, last month. Not even a teenager anymore.” The end of his cigarette glows in the darkness. “I’m barely even your son, am I? Only real thing we’ve got is Striker.”

And the little shit really knows where to aim, doesn’t he? Still, this the longest they’ve talked about anything that wasn’t jaeger-related in the past four years, and Herc’ll take the abuse if it means Chuck is actually tolerating him. “So Chuck, are you gay?”

“Do you care?”

“You’re my son. Of course I care.”

Chuck actually looks at him, face scrunched up in confusion, and he shrugs. “I guess, I dunno. Don’t care for girls much. Haven’t slept with one.”

No accidental pregnancies, then. That’s a relief. Probably means no grandkids either, which is something that Herc figures he can let bother him after they win this impossible war. Better, no little sprogs around right now. “It’s not that much different from...”

“Does this conversation have a point?”

“You brought it up.”

“No, you did, moping around here like a sad sack.” Chuck blows out a cloud of smoke. Max lays down between them, panting happily in the humid night. A bulldog, with all those breathing problems, probably wasn’t the best choice but Herc had heard they were good with kids and something needed to bring Chuck out of that post-Scissure funk. “Fuck that bloke. It’s not like he means anything to you anyway.”

“Why do you just assume that?”

“It’s some bloke who you’re fucking in a cupboard. How could he mean anything to you?”

“I asked him out on a date,” Herc replies. 

“Why?” Chuck looks genuinely perplexed.

Herc sighs. He never did teach his boy anything about relationships, did he? Not that he knows that much himself, getting married at nineteen and having a kid at twenty-three, but he and Angie made it work, didn’t they? Of course, talking about relationships always would have meant talking about Angie or not-Angie... “Cause that’s what you do when you care about somebody, Chuck.”

His son seems to tense. (Because there it is, as always, the reason why Herc hasn’t had a second date since Angie agreed to give him another chance). “So what’d he say?”

“I don’t know. He never talks to me.” _And now he’s never going to._

“Every gay relationship this fucked up?”

“I don’t know. It was always more your uncle’s thing.”

Chuck doesn’t linger, after that. Makes some excuse about Max overheating and high-tails it back into the ‘Dome. For a first conversation about the sprog’s sex life, Herc supposes it could have gone worse. Took his own mind off his own problems. Doesn’t fix anything, though. 

His bloke still hasn’t dropped a note in his locker again.

Probably doesn’t want to see him again. Or is still pissed off.

Herc’s not used to feeling this helpless. 

He leaves a note, just in case. A sliver of paper sticking out the bottom of the diamond-stamped metal. It’s a huge risk. He hopes his bloke will respect it.

Herc doesn’t use the locker again until the next Wednesday.

Like a coward.

+++++

Chuck tries. 

He tries to forget what he did. Bury it. So fucking deep nobody - and _especially_ Dad - will ever find it. Nothing was supposed to be like this. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to get this weird sliding feeling in his stomach every time he looks at the man. Every time Dad takes his shirt off in their shared quarters or in the drivesuit room. Every time they spar in the Kwoon.

It was just supposed to be sex.

Like Uncle Scott - equal opportunity pervert that he is - always said. _Sex is just sex. Don’t ruin it by making a big deal out of it._

But then, Uncle Scott’s in jail for something, something that can’t be nearly as bad as what Chuck’s doing now, and this whole thing makes him want to go walkabout and never come back.

This whole tattoo thing was pretty much an excuse to see if he could quit his dad. And he’s lasted almost three weeks now, but no. Dad had to go and be a selfish cunt and say all that shit about feelings.

Chuck’s jealous of it. Jealous of himself. Or rather, the imaginary bloke he’s conjured up out of nothing, because while Dad’s apparently turning himself inside out for a guy whose face he’s never seen, Dad doesn’t give two shits about his own son.

It should be fuel for him to dump this habit complete (kill all this unwelcome shit that’s spreading through his heart like a fungus) and get over himself. Go fuck other people. Like you’re supposed to do.

It lasts four more days.

That’s all the resistance Chuck can muster.

Four days, and he’s back in the locker room, stripped to the waist and contemplating the shower when he sees it.

A little corner of an envelop or something sticking out of Dad’s locker. Barely anything, sure, but far more than Dad would normally allow; their quarters have always been kept spartan and spotless. The man detests clutter. He wouldn’t just leave something like this.

“Fucking arsehole,” Chuck grumbles, but his heart still pounds and his hand still shakes a bit as he pulls the note out. 

_I don’t understand your reasons for saying no, but I can respect it. I’m terribly fond of our Wednesday nights and would love to see you back there with me again. 2200, I’ll be in the usual place if you fancy another go._

Chuck goes, on Wednesday.

He shouldn’t, but he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will confess, I'm a bit stuck on how to get them talking... Pitfall seems too cliche... hmm.


	5. Chapter 5

It was zero-three-twenty when Chuck chased the RABIT.

When the Drift broke.

The kaijuu’s dead now. Fortunately. Giant hulk of a Cat IV - seven legs and an oddly segmented body, they’d had to hack it apart piece by piece with the sling blades. Even with all the fine-tuning Chuck’s done with Striker to make her more responsive, smooth the interface, it was a brutal fight. 

They’ve been on call for fourteen hours, in the harness for six, and Chuck’s bleeding. Thank fuck they were almost done, when the memory of last night hit Herc like a tidal wave and swept Chuck under. 

At least he’s got some excuses to throw at the inevitable review board.

Herc’s got no idea what to say to his son. The conn-pod's a mess, the night air of the Straits of Mallaca creeping in through the holes is tinged with the scent of Blue, the emergency lighting is low enough to be disturbingly reminiscent of his fuck-cupboard, and it's his fault. His fault, and there's no way to fix it.

So instead, he’s unscrewing Chuck’s drive armor. One slippery red screw at a time.

It’s probably worse than it looks. Herc can feel the sting of fresh circuitry burns down his left leg, hip to knee, the same area he’s trying to get to on Chuck. Plenty of major veins in the thigh but it doesn’t feel like the right place for that. The plating’s not punctured, as Herc feared it might be, but it is badly dented, bent up, from where the bulkhead broke loose. Lucky hit from the kaijuu. They’d had to get close. Way too close.

And something, some echo, had rattled loose in between bringing Striker’s blades up and slamming them down.

Herc knows damn well his brain is Swiss cheese at this point; he’s drifted with more people than anyone else in the PPDC, some quirk of biology rendering him universally compatible. (Well, the doctors used to say it was psychological, like his silence made him accessible, but if that was true, wouldn’t he be able to reach his son?) He knows how to compartmentalize, keep things private.

He never wanted Chuck to see any of the things he’s done with his bloke.

Especially not like that.

There are memories and then there are RABITS. Memories slip by, eddies in the current, shadows and sunlight dancing under the surface, nothing to touch, nothing to hold onto. But RABITs, RABITs have teeth and intent. Grab a RABIT and it drags you down to the depths. 

Memories you watch. RABITs, you relive.

Which meant it felt like it was Chuck Herc was kissing, yesterday night in the darkness. Chuck in his arms, writhing against him, rock-hard and sweaty, kissing him with what Herc fancied was desperation when Herc tried to apologize again for trying to make something more of this, to push Chuck... his bloke, fuck, it wasn’t Chuck. It _isn’t_ Chuck. 

His son hates him. No matter what Herc does - and admittedly, he’s got no idea what to do, so what he’s doing _is_ probably wrong - he can’t seem to change that one simple fact.

His son hates him.

So while it might have felt real, shared, it was just the RABIT. The emotion in all of that - the need, the want, the sheer... affection, wasn’t anything more than affection - was Herc’s alone.

_Chuck hates you. He’d never kiss you like that._

Fuck, that’s a fucked up thought. 

He should never have asked to see his bloke again. Stupid of him anyway. Once emotions get involved, but the other person doesn’t share them, it’s time to move on. He should have cut his losses and not gone back. 

Chuck wouldn’t have RABITed then. Chuck wouldn’t be hurt.

The last screw on the thighplate hits the floor. Herc pries the plate off. Chuck moans. Blood oozes.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” Herc says, biting off the words in the stuttering light of the emergency systems. It’s the first noise Chuck’s made since going down, since Herc yelled at him to _get out of m’ fucking mind and focus on that motherfucker out there goddammit!_

“Feel like shit, old man,” Chuck coughs.

“Don’t call me that,” Herc mutters, and runs his hand across the exposed area. Too hard to see the finer details right now.

His circuitry suit is soaked with blood, but there’s no squirting. No bones poking through the skin. No significant swelling. Their armor did its job well, which is a relief. Dented but still whole, a connection latch had scraped across Chuck’s leg. Tore some skin off - hurts like hell, if their tenuous ghost drift is any indication - and no doubt the entire area’s going to be bruised as fuck tomorrow, but nothing life-threatening.

There’s more blood leaking down though. And Herc knows he should check up higher, get Chuck all the way out of this suit and wrap him up, keep him from losing too much body heat if he goes into shock, but he... he can’t. Not after that RABIT.

An all too familiar heat spreads through him at the feel of Chuck’s bare skin. Herc curls his fingers back, disgusted with himself.

Fuck, it felt so real. 

Herc’s never had a RABIT like that.

His concern must wash out into the lingering tendrils of the Drift - shattered when Chuck broke loose of his harness and ripped his helmet off, the second after LOCCENT declared the kaijuu dead - because Chuck tries to shove him away. “Fuck off if you’re gonna start up with that.”

“I didn’t start up with anything,” Herc replies and dumps the first aid kit out. Where are the fucking scissors? 

“So it’s my fault?”

“Four years, Chuck, four years and you haven’t chased a RABIT since our first drift,” Herc points out. No need to remind the kid what it was; the helicopter, the mushroom cloud, Chuck screaming. “Why this one?”

Chuck lapses back into silence.

Almost makes Herc miss piloting with Scott sometimes. At least he always knew what was going on in his little brother’s head. His son’s a complete mystery to him most of the time.

Still, it gives Herc the patience - and willpower - to peel the rest of Chuck’s drivesuit off of him, check him over and wrap him up in a crinkly space blanket from the kit while he goes back to patch up his leg. It really is disturbingly familiar touching his son’s bare leg. Has to the hangover - Herc’s head is pounding like a motherfucker right now. 

Chuck doesn’t speak again until Herc’s running the last few strips of medical tape across the last few injury site - burns, sprog’s got lots of circuitry burns - 

“This thing’s really fucked up, Dad,” Chuck mumbles, wiping his face, and Herc’s shocked to realize that the kid’s actually crying.

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Fuck you.” Anger crashes through the ghost drift, pounding at Herc’s temples. 

He sighs. “My bloke, then.”

“Fuck your bloke too. You don’t even know who he is.”

“This really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah? No shit.”

Carefully - because there’s nothing more dangerous than a Hansen man trying to manage a bunch of emotional bullshit - Herc sits down on the conn-pod floor next to his son. His drivesuit feels like it weighs about a thousand pounds, and Herc realizes just how tired he is. “This about your mum?”

“Fuck off.”

“Chuck...”

“No, it’s not about Mum,” Chuck mumbles, staring off at nothing. “I can’t do this. You and me and this shit, I can’t.”

“We haven’t RABITed before over this...”

“...and we’ve never RABITed like that,” Chuck snaps, and his eyes focus. They’re glassy from pain, but the anger’s still there. “It’s fucked up, Dad. There’s nothing about your bloke that makes any sense, nothing solid, like he’s not even real, so your mind just...” and he makes a little pushing motion with his hand before cuddling deeper into the blanket. “I can’t. I can’t fucking handle this.”

Well, there it is, isn’t it?

Herc gets up to check on their airlift. Jumphawk should fucking’ be here by now.

He'd give up anything, even his bloke, if it meant getting his son back. More likely, he's going to lose them both.

There's something there, a little niggling idea, a thought, something from the RABIT, but before Herc can grab onto it, it floats away in the night wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guh, I am so sorry guys. So so sorry this is taking me so long. But at least I know where this is going now, hooray!
> 
> (And I got a job! Yay, nice full time job!)


	6. Chapter 6

Thank god for his drivesuit fucking itself up, was what Chuck was thinking. All while the doctors were patching him up ( _no stitches but that'll be one hell of a bruise, Ranger Hansen. I'll have the techs double-check your sizing. The suits aren't supposed to snap on the seams like this_ ). Through the post-deployment hotwash (Dad as stoic as he always is when something goes wrong, the 'Dome commander resigned to the fact he isn't going to get any real answers). Chuck's been able to play it off.

_I was hurt_

_Except that's not fuck it, is it, you wanker?_

Max whines from the other side of the conn pod, and Chuck pulls his head out of the main Pons processor console to see what the dog's fussing about. Having a dream it seems, wrinkled little paws flapping in the air as he drools on his chest. With a sigh, Chuck goes over, sits down, idly strokes his belly. 

Dad got him Max about a month after they'd gotten to Kodiak Island back in '14, after it became clear that none of the other kids there wanted anything to do with the angry Aussie kid. Anytime Chuck finds himself really upset, petting Max seems to help.

Not tonight, though.

Chuck can still see his own blood on the deck plating. His leg is protesting like a son of a bitch now that he's stopped moving. Stupid deep tissue bruising. And no matter how many diagnostics he runs, he can't find anything wrong with the Pons.

Whatever had happened out there, it was organic. Psychological. Them. 

Chuck desperately wants to know why he fell like that. Into the last time he and Dad fucked. Shared memories, neural feedback loops...not a thing that happens very much, not even between family pairs who have a strong likelihood of sharing real life experiences. They've done it exactly once, the first time they drifted, and Chuck's pretty sure that Dad did it on purpose, opened it up intentionally.

Scissure. Lifting away from the school grounds, realizing this wasn't actually a game, that Mum was still back there in Sydney, that she wasn't here. 

The day Chuck lost her.

Today's the day he loses Dad too, if Dad figures out that this was them.

He's not sure if he has the courage to climb back in the harness with Dad. He has to, though. If he doesn't, he'll lose Striker. Dad's universally compatible; Chuck's not. Dad's also much better liked in the Corps. No way they'll keep him, Chuck knows. Nobody else can or will pilot with him. It's why he's partnered with his father in the first place.

If he risks it though, if he tries and fails, if Dad goes looking for answers - which he will, no doubt about that - Chuck'll lose Dad. Forever probably. Considering Uncle Scott.

He was so hoping there was a problem with the equipment. Would have made this so much easier.

Machines can be fixed. So much simpler than people, machines. 

It had been good too, the other night. Chuck had been so relieved, when Dad was actually there in their room. Dad hadn't left him; Dad still wanted him. Not him, his bloke, but still. There they were. There they had been.

That hadn't been what did it though. What Chuck had been thinking about when Dad's mind had touched on the same moment in time and sent them both spiraling into the abyss of that shared memory.

"Don't rightly understand your reasons for why you won't let me take you to dinner," Dad had whispered into Chuck's sweaty hair, after they'd finished. "Whatever you're worried about, don't be. Nothing's going to happen to me out there. Can't lose my boy too, so if he's gonna come home safe, reckon I need to too." 

They'd fucked again. After that, they'd fucked again, slower and maybe a little sweeter, lust satiated and something else there instead. _Love maybe_ Chuck's still-addled brain tries to tell him. But sure, while he loves his dad (in all the wrong ways), there would need to be some kind of synch-up of emotions or something...

Dad had been talking about him, Chuck, not his bloke, who he seems to have some kind of fucked-up crush on.

The whole thing is fucking bizarre. 

Was.

Chuck is never going back to that room. If he had somewhere else to go, he would probably just...

"Oi, you know Marshall Pentecost will be here in the AM to determine if we'll be facing an official inquiry."

Chuck resists the urge to pull his dog-sleeping and everything-into his arms like a shield against Dad's eternal disapproval. "Thought you went to bed, old man," he grunts.

And Dad does look exhausted, leaned up against the door like he'll fall over ifhe steps away. ''Awful hard to sleep through a Drift hangover when your co-pilot's frenetically tearing the conn pod computers apart."

Of course. It's all about him. It's always about him, what he wants.

Dad winces and the wave of regret that crashes through the ghost drift makes Chuck grab for Max. "Chuck, you've been awake for twenty-eight hours. Come to bed."

Panic spikes cold in Chuck's blood. "Huh?"

"Go to bed," Dad says, uneasy. "Come back to the room and get some sleep."

"I'm good where I am."

"The Marshall's gonna think you're tampering with evidence."

"Well I'm fucking not."

An unsettled silence falls for a moment, breaking again when Max makes another sleepy little grunt.

"We need to talk about this."

"No we don't."

"If this bullshit of mine is getting in the way, it's done. You're more..."

"Fuck off, old man."

"Chuck, burying yourself in Striker isn't going to..."

"I don't care what you think I should or shouldn't be doing!" Chuck half-yells, unable to stand the bizarre concern, startling Max awake and causing Dad to stumble back. "Just like I don't care what you do with your dick! I don't fucking want to know! Why can't you just leave me alone?!"

It's too much - Chuck knows it as soon as the words leave his mouth. Dad doesn't react, nothing beyond a twitch of his jaw. "I'll take a Valium then."

"Wait," Chuck tries to plea. "Dad..."

But Dad's already gone.

Max nuzzling at his palm, looking for pets, Chuck wonders if they'd let him cross-train into LOCCENT. Something. Anything. He needs this to be over.

Dad deserves to pilot with somebody he doesn't hate.

Worst part is, Chuck's pretty sure this is his own fault.

Maybe it's always been his fault.

+++++

''We're supposed to do these reviews with both pilots present," is what Herc says, as soon as the Marshall shuts the door. "The fuck am I doing here alone Stacker?"

Herc already knows this isn't the formal debrief. For one, because that's scheduled for this afternoon at 1500, and for another, because this is Stacker cornering him in the Ops Group break room. In civilian PT gear no less, like he just got done with the gym and decided this was a fantastic time to light up one of his senior Rangers.

It's disconcerting. As it's no doubt intended to be. Except Herc hasn't seen Chuck since that abortive attempt at a conversation last night - hadn't that been a disaster? - and he's starting to get worried. Max had come back this morning, looking for his brekkie, but no Chuck.

Herc knows he hurt Chuck with that RABIT. He's just not sure how to make it right. Maybe it's time to hang it up, move up to some command position and let Chuck step out on his own. There are plenty of young pilots dying for an opportunity, and isn't Mako graduating in a few months? She and Chuck have a decent friendship, or seemed to, back in the day, similar temperaments. Could work.

It's pretty clear Chuck doesn't want anything to do with him. Herc can't blame him, not really. He had the perfect opportunity to walk away from his bloke and selfishly didn't, and look at what's that done to his boy. Like that weird slip of the tongue last night... 

''We've known each other a long time, haven't we?"

"What's your point?"

"I'd like to go over the results from the Pons analysis," Stacker replies pointedly, and gestures to one of the break room chairs. "Sit."

Herc's fucked; he knows this. No way this isn't going to turn his neck red. He takes his time though, gets a beer first. "Thought you lot weren't allowed to read our minds."

"We can't. Doctor Lightcap was very specific about such functionality not being included in the system schematics."

He pops the cap off the long-neck on the edge of the counter, trying to buy time. "Beer?"

"Ranger..."

Herc sighs. Sits. The bottle's already sweating. "You're just looking at general brain wave patterns then."

"Just like we did when we needed to build a case against Scott," Stacker replies, halfway between exasperation and condescension. 

"You're not implying we're in danger of losing Striker, are you?"

"We're lucky Chuck got injured. Allows me a bit more opportunity to sell this as kaijuu related, rather than pilot error," his commander replies. "I don't want you worrying about the Security Council, Herc. It's me you owe answers to."

Figures. Hell. "What do you wanna know?"

''Why the Drift broke."

''Chuck chased a RABIT. End of story. Your read-outs ought'ta back that up."

''It doesn't, actually."

"It was a RABIT. I'm telling you..."

"RABITs show as spikes on one pilot's read-outs, while the other's remain relatively normal." Stacker slaps a file down on the table. "You and your boy were synched."

And there it is - the flush. Herc hopes the guilt isn't showing as well. "That would mean we were sharing a memory."

''The time stamps coincide with when Chuck ripped out of the harness. What were you two lost in?"

"It had to be a RABIT."

''I had Lightcap review it. I assure you, it was not."

''That's impossible," Herc mutters, flipping through the papers. It's all here; transcripts, hydraulic reports, the Pons data... all time stamped. All pointing to that moment.

But Herc had been thinking about the room. His bloke. Bloody hell. He's never spoken, refuses to be identified in any way... 

"What were you two lost in?"

"Sir..."

"I am not asking you for deference, Herc. I am ordering you to answer me."

Herc closes the file and folds his hands on top of it. "Sir, I won't do that."

''Then pack your shit, Hansen. I can't use you anymore."

That's no idle threat. Herc is damn well aware of that. Not from the man who court-martialled the only Ranger who's ever lived through the death of his co-pilot. Fuck knows if Becket's even still alive. (The current odds are 1:72. The Gages update the betting pool spreadsheet monthly.) And he's not the only Ranger who's run afoul of Stacker's sensibilities. 

Still though, Herc hesitates. But Chuck will never forgive him if they lose Striker, and the last thing Herc wants to do is give the sprog more reasons to hate him.

"We can sit here from now until the kaijuu get us, and I'll have nothing more to say on the matter.''

Stacker sighs - honestly, was he expecting a different answer? - and drums his fingers on the table between them. ''Was it Angela?" he asks. "Or sex?''

"We've been friends for a long time..."

''Sex, then." Herc stares at the wall behind his commander, trying to focus on anything but the roaring sensation filling the space between his ears. Stacker shifts, expression softening. "It's not unusual between co-pilots, Herc. Emotions get fucked in the Drift, hangovers play a part. Hell, Tamsin and I..."

"I would never touch my boy like that, Stacks!" he snaps, thinking about Scott, and feels sick. His little brother, whatever, but his son... most Rangers end up fucking, but he'd never even thought... Chuck hates him, Chuck can't hardly stand being around him... Chuck's his son... Angela's son... 

''Apparently you did."

"Stacker..." he growls. 

But Stacker just holds up a hand; the man's always been a dismissive arse, but it's never pissed Herc off more than it's doing right now. "Whatever the fuck is going on between you two, resolve it before Chuck comes off medical leave. I need my Mark Five operational."

"Yes sir," Herc says, biting back the _go to hell_ on the tip of his tongue. How _dare_ his commander - his friend - all but order him to fuck his boy? If that's what this is...if this... "Permission to be dismissed?"

Stacker waves him off.

Herc storms out, barely maintaining his anger. At Stacker, at Chuck, at...

"And Herc!" Stacker calls from down the hall.

Breathing deep, Herc turns. ''Yessir?"

"Chuck's asked Mike about transferring out of the Corps. He should still be up in the Command section, if you'd like to discuss that with him."

Herc doesn't bother responding.

He doesn't know what to say.

And despite promising himself that he'll figure it out on the way up to the Shatterdome's Command staff offices, the only thing Herc can think about is his bloke. The guy he'd maybe been falling for. All the little gasps, rare that they were, the feel of that body, bulky and solid, how young he'd seemed, eager and uncoordinated and un-

Fuck. Had he popped the sprog's cherry?

Had he actually been fucking his son?

How has Chuck hidden it all this time? How did it start? _Why_? The Drift? Some fucked up thing in Herc's brain, infecting Chuck through neural bleed? 

But the thing Herc keeps coming back to is anger. 

He would have given Chuck anything. 

Why didn't Chuck come to him? Why didn't Chuck say anything? Why didn't Chuck ask?

What has he done to his son to bring them to this point? He's sick about the sex, but that is not the real problem here. Chuck lying is. 

Herc knows he's not an overly expressive man but goddamn it, Chuck's the one person on the planet he loves. Chuck is all that matters.

Chuck's the only thing that matters.

Yet Herc is terrible with words (he knows this about himself, always has and always has been) and even as he's pushing past the executive officer's half-arsed protests into the 'Dome commander's office, he's got no idea what to say.

Not an inkling of how to make any of this better for his miserable son, curled up in one of those leather chairs on the business end of that ridiculous Scandinavian desk.

"Herc, good to..."

"Yeah, Pentecost told me, Mike," Herc says brusquely. Their 'Dome commander's an old fighter jet bloke; he'll forgive the rudeness. Like Herc gives a flying fuck right now. "Can I get a minute with my co-pilot?"

''Whatever my best team needs," Mike says and pushes back from the desk. 

They're alone not a second too soon.

Herc locks the door.

"It wasn't a RABIT, was it?" he says, coming over around to the front of the desk. 

"Asked for a transfer," Chuck grumbles, eyes on the floor. "Don't worry about it."

"You're not transferring out of Striker, Chuck."

"Why not?"

"Because you love it." This is not at all the way Herc wants this to go, but dammit if it's not already out of his control. 

Chuck finally looks up at him, an odd expression on his face.

There's only one direction this conversation can go from here, and that's south. Chuck hates him, so Chuck's not gonna budge; that's the Hansen stubbornness right there, but he looks so much like his mother it aches.

Herc does the only thing he can do.

The only path to reconciliation Chuck has left him. 

Herc grabs Chuck by the lapels of that ridiculous jacket and drags him up.

And kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is taking FOREVER! But I've decided to thoroughly embarass myself by upgrading the Steampunk chuck Hansen cosplay and I have a boyfriend now who actually wants to do things during the week and I have a stack of projects a mile high... This is what I did instead of making spats today! (I think we're almost there with these two!)
> 
> Would anybody be up for a Project Runway AU? In the vein of season 9? Where chuck is the bitchy queen, here is the cranky older guy, mako is the brilliant designer who only just learned how to sew and Raliegh is the only straight guy on the show ever and really wants mako to like him, except she thinks he's gay too. And maybe yancy shows up for the family challenge


	7. Chapter 7

Chuck knows just about everything about his dad. At least, he’d like to think so. They’ve slept in the same cramped quarters together since Chuck was eleven; they’ve been fucking for almost a year now (and Chuck doesn’t even want to think about that, how they’re both stubborn enough to keep doing this but not brave enough to do anything else). They don’t talk much. They pilot together. They _drift_.

Dad might not give a shit about him, but Chuck’s not that lucky himself. Him and his fucked up head. He cares. He pays attention.

But this shit?

Nothing he’s got in his head, nothing at all, would have made him think...

Shit.

Dad knows.

And Chuck lashes out. Shoves him off. Hard. 

Because this can’t be happening, so it’s not happening, so they are not doing this.

They’re not.

Dad doesn’t back off. Steps back - can’t help it really - but doesn’t retreat. Normally he does. The first bit of emotion Chuck shows, and there Dad goes. Except Chuck’s pretty sure he’s beet red right now, confusion and anger bleeding out into the ghost drift, but Dad is still fucking here. Just looking at him. _Looking_ at him, like they’ve never seen each other before.

And Dad leans back in. One hand on the top of the desk, their commander’s desk, too close and too warm and Chuck knows exactly what that body pressing in on him can do to his, how it can make him feel. That was before, though, before Dad knew and Dad obviously knows now and whatever this is a prelude to, it’ll be... it won’t be that, won’t be them. 

Dad has always been indifferent. Always. Except when he’s disappointed, and the last time Dad got disappointed, he almost killed Uncle Scott. 

So why is Dad not hitting him? 

Why won’t he stop _looking_?

“The fuck are you...”

But now Dad’s touching, touching him, those big rough fingers laid on Chuck’s face very, very gently, touching him like they’ve touched in the dark.

“Shut up,” he murmurs, and kisses him again.

Chuck shoves at him. Dad doesn’t let go this time. Just catches Chuck’s hand with his own, wrapping it up, holding it against his chest, without breaking the kiss at all.

Arsehole. There’s no holding out against that.

He grabs on.

Lets go.

They never kissed much in the dark, back in their room. Chuck didn’t think it was the done thing, not in character for some bloke after random hook-ups or whatever the fuck it was they were doing. He’d never even let himself think of this - kissing, in the light, knowing - being a possibility. Hell, he hasn’t done much of this, and he’s pretty sure he’s shit at it, but Dad liked his first blow job well enough, so Chuck does what he did that night; fakes it and hopes to hell it’s enough.

It’s all heat, this kiss, augmented by the searing echo of the memory that broke the Drift apart yesterday. Chuck doesn’t need the Drift to tell him what Dad’s hands feel like on his body though, sliding up into his hair and under his shirt. That shit is happening right now, in real time, with his lips parted and Dad’s tongue stroking the roof of...

Holy shit. 

Their teeth clash, noses bump, and Chuck drops his face, nose tucking into the crook of his dad’s neck. That hand that was tugging at his hair not a moment before brushes gently down his shoulders. Chuck squeezes his eyes shut, grabbing Dad’s shirt tight. There’s something about this that make him feel like a little boy. A little boy with his daddy taking care of him.

Not that he ever had that.

Not since Scissure, anyway.

The thought of that makes his guts twist up.

“Do you really want to transfer?” Dad rumbles, the words more vibration than sound than right now, still petting him. This is familiar, except it’s not; they’ve never touched each other in daylight. “Is that what you want?”

Chuck screws his eyes tighter still. There’s no good way to answer that. Fuck no, he doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to give Striker up, doesn’t want to leave the crew and the mission and everything he said he’d do, and... Dad’s the last. Dad’s all he has.

“Yeah,” he lies. 

“Bullshit.”

“Leave me alone, old man,” Chuck grumbles.

“Reckon I’ve been doing a bit too much of that lately,” Dad says, head cocked, eyes soft. His fingers stroke Chuck’s cheek, and Chuck hates himself for the way he leans into it. “Always thought you felt needy.”

Chuck’s stomach twists up at that, and he slaps Dad’s hand away, scooting back. “Yeah, your anonymous fucktoy. Your _bloke_ , who ain’t even real.”

This time, Dad lets him move away, but the wanker’s eyes don’t leave him. “As I recall, you’re the one who initiated.”

 _You cared more about him than you do me,_ Chuck thinks, sullen, and it occurs to him that Dad is only doing this because he’s the bloke in the dark, not the son who should be far more deserving of his father’s attentions. He doesn’t know how he should feel about that, or feel about this, or what it means, or why Dad would kiss him, or any of this shit.

The light that was in Dad’s eyes before fades a bit, the longer Chuck goes without saying anything, and he finally clears his throat. “This is... we probably should have had a talk about this sooner. The Drift can do...”

“This isn’t about the Drift.”

“Chuck, we started drifting when you were fifteen and whatever you’re... whatever you think you’re feeling...” - and holy hell, is Dad blushing? - “it’s nothing we can’t get through. All this... pilot teams fuck all the time, even the related ones, and...”

But Chuck doesn’t want to listen to this anymore. He’s had enough trouble trying to work this out in his fucked-up head over the past year and the last thing, the very last thing, he needs is Dad mucking it up even more with half-arsed rationalizations. So Dad’s horrified at the idea of fucking his own kid, the kid he hates, and Chuck doesn’t have to sit here and let him beat that point home.

“Whatever,” he says and pushes away from the desk. 

“Chuck!” Dad snaps.

Chuck doesn’t look back at him. He doesn’t trust himself.

+++++

Back when Chuck was still Charlie, right after Angie died, he used to try to run away from home. Worked out okay back when they were stationed in Alice Springs after Scissure hit, before the PPDC really got spun up, because running away usually meant the sprog camped out in a friend’s backyard for a few hours until he got hungry and sulk his way home. Scott would take him out for ice cream and try and talk to him and things would be fine. Herc always knew where to find him. He never feared it.

There was a day, about a week after they’d gotten to Kodiak Island for jaeger training, when Chuck pulled that same runaway shit. Except it was late fall, a storm front moving in, and neither Herc nor Scott knew where their boy could have gone, much less when he’d taken off; they’d been in training all day. A few frantic calls and half the base was out looking for Chuck within twenty minutes. But Herc was the one who’d finally found him, half-freezing in one of the hangers where they were building the jaegers, huddled behind a stack of old munitions boxes.

The sprog wouldn’t look him in the face. Wouldn’t tell him why he’d taken off or what was wrong. Herc didn’t need to hear it, though. Chuck was grieving. Chuck hated him for not saving Angela, for moving him halfway around the world, for not being able to protect him from the monsters that were coming from the sea. 

Best he could do was bundle Chuck up in his flight jacket and carry him back through the falling snow to the dorms. Silent - Chuck was silent a lot back then. 

Herc had gotten Max that weekend, a wee little ten week old pup. Chuck didn’t run away again. 

Still, Herc knows there are only so many places Chuck can or will go, and as worried as he is, he forces himself not to overreact. To stay calm. (It’s damn hard, but he’s a professional and it’s his job to be calm, so that’s what he does.) He makes a couple of excuses to the ‘Dome commander - who’s still waiting outside in the main office area - grabs the transfer paperwork away, and heads back to their room.

Chuck’s either going to go to Max or Striker. And considering that Striker is wrecked and Chuck feels like it’s his fault, it’ll probably be Max.

He doesn’t run. 

He makes himself not run.

Chuck’s not in their room. Max is still here though, ambling happily over for attention, and Herc just sits there in the middle of their tiny living quarters, trying to gather his thoughts as he pets their dog. Dog’s here, boy’s gone, the ghost drift is a fucking mess, Chuck obviously intentionally screaming white noise into it so Herc can’t sense anything...

Herc always hated it when Chuck ran away.

(and holy shit, he spent the last year fucking his son, _falling in love_ with his son, and while he’ll never be able to get the taint of this off his soul, he’s not sure he wants to, not after that kiss, and that’s terrifying)

His phone buzzes; meeting request, a pre-hotwash hotwash, so they can figure out what story they’re going to go with before Stacker tears their shit apart this afternoon.

Fuck that.

He turns his phone off, gives Max a kiss, and leaves.

The Shatterdome is just as big as it was that afternoon in Alaska, and even though he knows this place inside and out, he feels just as lost as he was back then.

Chuck’s not anywhere in the hangers. Not in LOCCENT. He’s not in the chow hall or any of the squadron break rooms or the gym or the medical complex or fucking...

Shit.

Herc stops in the corridor outside the clinic. Stops cold. Chuck wouldn’t be there, would he? 

He almost runs. 

The room, their little cupboard, looks different with the lights on - more sterile, less intimate. He knows his way around here by touch but he doesn’t need that to guide him to the couch in the far back area, where Chuck is curled up on their sofa.

Crying, from the sound of it.

Herc has never seen his son cry.

It’s...

It’s heartbreaking.

“Oh Chuck,” he breathes, sitting awkwardly down on the cushions next to his boy, not sure if he can or should touch, after the way he freaked out in the office. “Chuck, son...”

He doesn’t have to worry about it thought. Chuck pitches into him, all but face-planting into Herc’s shoulder, grabbing on again, like he was back in the office, the same frantic desperation bleeding out of him to pool in the back of Herc’s mind.

Herc wraps his arms around his son’s shaking shoulders, trying to make sense out of this. Chuck freaked out when Herc tried to tell him it was okay, that he understood (this shit happens all the time between co-pilots, it really does, and it’s not like he and Scott never found themselves in the same bed together), so what is he supposed to say? What is he supposed to do?

“I’m sorry,” he finally whispers, kissing the top of Chuck’s head, rocking him a little. “Baby, I’m so sorry.” That only seems to make the sobs come harder. “I... it was fucking selfish of me, piloting with you. Should have let Stacker pair you up with one of the other candidates and spare you from having to drift your old man. Reckon it was always gonna bring us here.” He’s not sure if any of this is right, but how else is he supposed to get those tears to stop? It’s not fair, it is his fault, and it was selfish of him, and Chuck’s still crying. The last thing in the world he’s prepared to deal with is his son - his strong, silent, beautiful son - crying. It’s setting every alarm off in his head. It’s horrible. “Wasn’t right. Wasn’t right at all. I thought if I was out there with you, at least I could protect you. Fucked everything up proper though, didn’t I? And here I was, not wanting to see you get hurt.”

Chuck shifts a bit, and Herc realizes the boy’s actually looking up at him. His face is alarmingly splotchy, almost purple, but his eyes are sharp as ever. Takes everything Herc has to not wipe the next tear away. “What?” he asks, sounding completely perplexed.

“I asked Stacker to forgo additional compatibility testing, back when you graduated,” Herc says, very slowly, not sure why he’s bringing this up now. “I wanted you with me. I wanted us in the conn pod together.” 

“Why?”

“Thought... thought I could protect you, and it might fix things between us. Thought it might bring you back to me.” He forces a weak smile. “Your old man, the eternal fuck up.”

Chuck’s brow furrows, and his mouth opens only to shut again without words. He shakes his head. Closes his eyes. Snuggles closer, more of his weight shifting into Herc’s lap. “Whatever,” he mumbles. “Who fuckin’ cares?”

Herc strokes his boy’s shoulder, trying not to let the crushing emotion of this all overwhelm him. He’s not allowed to be upset. He’s not allowed to get pissed off or disappointed or sad. He’s the parent here. He’s the one who failed. He’s he responsible one. He knows this. He’s always known this.

“You want a new drift partner?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about this... sex thing?”

“Fuck no.”

At least he’s not crying anymore. “What do you want?”

“Fuck you, old man.”

“Goddammit, Chuck, I’m trying here! I fucking know you hate me, but the incessant reminders, every goddamn time I try to...”

“I don’t hate you.”

Herc blinks. What? “Umm...”

“I don’t hate you, Dad,” Chuck mumbles again, digging his palm into his forehead the way he does when he’s getting a headache. “You do enough of that shit for the both of us.”

Still stroking Chuck’s hair - because Herc can’t get his hand to stop - Herc frowns. “What do you mean? I don’t... do you think I hate you? Is that what you think?” he asks softly. Chuck doesn’t answer, but the grip he’s got on Herc’s shirt tightens up hard. “Chuck, you are the only thing in this world that I love. You piss me off sometimes, and don’t you dare think we aren’t talking about this sex shit, but...”

But he doesn’t get anything else out, because Chuck’s hold on him twists and drags him back into a kiss, and as fucked up as this is, it’s the best thing Herc’s felt in forever. 

Herc should stop it. He knows he should. The lights are on, and he can see this is his son, and there’s nothing about this that’s okay. But nothing in their lives is okay; nothing about their lives makes sense. 

If sex is the way to solve the equation that is their fucked-up relationship, Herc’s more than willing to do that math.

(Doesn’t hurt that he knows exactly what Chuck’s body does to his, nor that Herc has been dying to hear his bloke speak, but the last thing in the world Herc wants to think about right now are the implications, because he’s pretty sure he’s fallen in love with his own son.)

“Lie back, baby,” Herc murmurs instead. “Daddy’s going to take care of you.”

+++++

Herc gets up about halfway through to turn the lights off. 

It’s a little much right now.

But his boy finally does give voice to his pleasure, moaning as his daddy’s cock drives home, both of them half-dressed, pants shoved down and shirts still on. And holds onto him afterwards. Kisses him. Whispers a quiet _love you Dad_ in Herc’s ear.

Herc’ll take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good place to end, or does it need a bit more?
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry, y'all, I've been struggling a lot with the writing lately. Real boyfriend, real job, real family drama (so much family drama), real con at the end of the month... but at least that I have under control. Now. Heh.


End file.
